


All to See

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, reverse strip-tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“At this rate, I won’t be dressed until sundown."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All to See

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme; reverse strip-tease.

It starts with his bare skin, more tangible than the glittering baubles that adorn the outer pieces of the grandmaster’s armor. Malik presses his teeth against the curve of Altair’s neck, biting until he feels the air rush by his ear when Altair exhales.  He steps back, admiring the circle of red indents, just one of many that he has left within the past few minutes.  Wiping dry the slick spot of skin, Malik smirks and tugs the clean shirt over Altair’s shoulders, covering the mark.  He reaches for laces, letting it thread through his fingers, and tilts his head to pull them with his teeth while Altair maneuvers his arms through the long sleeves, eyes growing darker and darker.

Despite that, Malik doesn’t linger over the ties, securing them the way Altair prefers, tight and fitting.  When he’s done, he reaches for the table, picking up the folded sirwal before dropping to one knee.  Leaning close, he allows his breath to play over Altair’s hip, moving slowly to brush his lips near the inner thigh.  There is a dark bruise from the night before and he mouths it, smiling at the memory.

Altair clears his throat and Malik glances up.

“I think I better get that,” Altair says lowly.  He takes the sirwal from Malik, looking as if he is regretting the decision already.  “At this rate, I won’t be dressed until sundown.”

Malik stands back up, not bothering to hide his chuckle. “True enough,” he replies, turning to the table once more to grab the inner tunic.  The cloth is heavy in his hand, black and hard to stain unlike Altair’s other clothes.  For a grandmaster, the fabric is plain; even the embroidery is simple around the seems and hem, made from a type of golden thread that catches the light with a dull sheen.  Malik pulls it over Altair’s bowed head, just as the other man finishes putting on the sirwal and greaves.  

The weight of the robes is fitting for all the responsibility it represents, and Altair wears it well.  Malik carefully smooths out the snags, unashamed when his hand moves across Altair’s chest, and even less so when he places light kisses along Altair’s jawline.  The skin is unusually smooth and smells of the rose water they had used to wash their bodies.  It’s different and almost strange, but a thoughtful lick beneath the ear confirms the salty taste of Altair’s skin is still the same.  

Malik almost doesn’t notice Altair going still, right in the middle of buckling his left vambrace with the right one hanging loosely over his forearm. Unable to help himself, Malik grabs it, nipping at his fingers and swiping his tongue over the pad of Altair’s thumb.

For a moment, Altair looks so blank Malik wonders if they are going to have to start all over.  

“My armor,” Altair says after a weighty pause, the words coming out too quickly and he loosens his collar before returning to the dangling vambrace.

Several possible comments come to Malik’s mind, all of them teasing and near obscene, but the heightened flush on Altair’s face is telling enough.  He releases Altair’s wrist.

Unlike his robes, Altair’s armor is elaborate and beautiful.  The metal gleams with golden tones and the patterns resemble a complex network of weaving veins and leaves.  Malik hefts the chest guard, leaving Altair to put it on himself, and gives him the pauldrons right after.  He watches, quietly, unless Altair motions for him to adjust a few clasps.  Each time he does, Malik bites and sucks at Altair’s neck and as far as he can go to the shoulder, making sure to do it hard enough to make them last, even when they disappear beneath cloth and metal.  He can’t explain it, but there’s something intensely gratifying in dressing Altair in his ceremonial robes, watching the Altair he knows disappear behind rank and title.  And for all of Altair’s complaints about how much of a hassle it is, Malik knows that he loves it too, loves to preen and strut for those rare occasions, and loves that he is able to get away with it.

“Except for when I have to parade myself in front of foreign dignitaries, who are too dull or easily awed to appreciate it,” Altair corrects, tilting his head just the slightest to give Malik more room.

“We  need  them, Altair. You are the host, and we can’t impress them otherwise,” Malik scoffs. “You aren’t charming enough with your words alone.”

“I can talk and flatter, when the mood strikes me,” Altair says, raising his brow in challenge.  “At least I don’t glare like you.”

“You can talk and flatter, yes, but you also  _argue_ , which makes you considerably less charming,” Malik replies, though Altair is becoming more apt with politics as of late, probably  _because_   he glares less.  But, sometimes, Altair also talks  _too_ much, so Malik steps behind him to tighten the chest guard and leave another merciless red mark at his neck.

Altair makes a tiny noise, not quite a moan, but Malik can feel the heat rising from his flushed skin.  He licks a wet trail and blows cool air against it until Altair leans away to drag the ornamental belt from the table with an effort that was more mental than physical.

Malik regards the heavily adorned sash with a wry grin.  All the jewels and unnecessary metal pieces are ridiculous and flagrant, but Malik has to admit the surreal appeal, dazzling as it was.  He takes one end and wraps it around Altair’s waist, enjoying the feel of red silk, the soft clink of metal, and the rise and fall of their chests pressing together.  Altair follows along, fixing the folds and guiding Malik’s hand behind his back.

“Are we done?” he asks, looking down to inspect himself.

“Not yet,” Malik says, reaching up to draw the cowl over Altair’s bright eyes, and it’s not just Altair he’s looking at now, but someone with the bearing of a thousand lives and almost untouchable power.

“Well?” the Grandmaster prompts, impatient as he pushes forward, forcing Malik’s back to bump against the table.

Malik smiles, looks at him from top to bottom, and never once touches him to fiddle with the ties or wrinkle of cloth.  There is nothing more to do.  “You look perfect,” he says, completely earnest.

And he supposes this is why he loves it-- that he can mark Altair all he wants and know every bruise and scar, while Altair walks around the fortress, impassive and intimidating. On the surface, he is all glittering steel, composed and dangerous in his shining livery.  Everyone can see it, but it is only Malik who knows how the Grandmaster drops to his knees, pulling and tugging at Malik’s robes with eager gloved hands.

Malik grips the table’s edge, not wanting to wrinkle the cowl by grabbing the back of Altair’s head.  He doesn’t need to see Altair’s face to know that his lips are already parted and that his gaze is wild with hunger.  His breath quickens at the thought, the image, and he’s half hard under his breeches, though he has been aching ever since Altair had stripped down in front of him.  He can imagine the grin and the silent laugh when Altair sees it and takes him into his mouth with little hesitation.

Malik rolls his head back, jaw clenching to keep quiet.  He finds that he likes the near-anonymity, or the idea of near-anonymity that everyone else would see.  The Grandmaster making wet, sucking noises under him could be anyone at all, but it’s only Altair who knows how to move his head and tongue in time to Malik’s short thrusts, and every trick that sends Malik’s breath stuttering.  Altair doesn’t  tease or linger--there’s not enough time for that--and Malik distantly remembers they have a very, very important meeting to attend.  They are most likely late by now.

As if reading his mind, Altair hums around his cock, his arm coming up to pin down Malik’s hips to keep him as still as possible. Malik can    
feel  him swallow slightly, the increased pressure causing the thoughts to fly from his head, and he lets himself forget everything for a moment.  

Malik makes a choked sound, the table digging almost painfully into his back.  The usual holding back doesn’t apply now, not with Altair’s mouth working up and down, hot and precise with all the intent of finishing quickly.  And it’s easy to give in, just this once when they are in a hurry; Malik opens his mouth to gasp, shuddering hard in a wave of dizzying pleasure.  

It takes a moment for him to gather his thoughts, but his heart is still beating fast when Altair stands up, quickly fixing Malik’s robes before he seems to remember to wipe his own mouth as an afterthought.  Malik stares, fighting down the sudden, irrational feeling of possessiveness welling inside him.  Altair’s lips are bright red around the edges, and not even the shadow of his hood could hide that, but Malik doesn’t want anyone but  _him_ to see it, ever.

“Are you ready to go?” Altair asks, catching Malik’s look.  Except for his mouth, he is not the lest bit disheveled in appearance, though his voice betrays him again with its quiet rasp.

Malik quirks an eyebrow, letting his eyes drift below Altair’s belt.  He pushes off the table, hooking his fingers under Altair’s chest guard to keep him from escaping.  The grandmaster’s robes are thick and heavy, but when Malik presses his knee between Altair’s legs, he can feel the other’s erection and, most of all, hear the wavering pitch when Altair speaks.

“Malik, we are going to be late.  We can take care of it after, if you are that desperate,” the Grandmaster says, trying to be haughty and failing entirely when he rubs helplessly back and forth against Malik.

Malik smirks and reaches under Altair’s robes, setting his knee down and moving between the layers of cloth to undo the ties of Altair’s sirwal.  

“It won’t take long if you come quickly,” he says, palming Altair’s cock.

Altair grunts, his hands gripping Malik’s shoulders.  All Malik can see is his bared teeth, almost a snarl, before Altair leans in, resting his forehead against the curve of Malik’s neck.

“Then get on with it,” the Grandmaster hisses, emphasizing the demand with a jerk of his hips, and, as if to apologize for his harsh tone, ghosts his lips over Malik’s cheek. He can’t mark Malik since he knows very well that the dai prefers to not draw up his hood.  The restraint on Altair’s part shows, but his teeth grazes at the edges of Malik’s ear every so often.

Too pressed for time to start a string of retorts and quips, Malik thumbs the tip of Altair’s cock, slicking his fingers.  It’s not quite enough yet, and Malik thinks of kneeling back down to use his mouth instead, but Altair growls and finally  _bites_ at the base of his shoulder, deep enough for Malik to twist away with a warning look.

“Don’t,” Altair pants, struggling to clarify, “Stay where you are-” and breaks off with a sharp intake of breath as Malik adjusts his hold.

Malik suspects the friction is too much, teetering on being painful, but Altair groans and closes what little space there is between them.  It becomes easier after a few moments, his palm growing wet enough for him to move his hand in earnest. 

“Altair,” he murmurs, and without having to say anything else, the Grandmaster turns his head to cover Malik’s mouth with his own.  The force behind it is staggering and needy, frustrated by the restrictive layers separating them.

Altair doesn’t intend to last long.  Malik can feel his moaning vibrations through their mouths every time he bends his wrist and curl his fingers.  He squeezes, mindful of the subtle little details that would send Altair bucking in his hand and smug that he knows all of them, right down to the way he slackens his grip for a moment and runs his fingers around and over, repeating, until Altair can’t keep up with Malik’s mouth and he has to break away to gasp and curse. 

When he comes, the Grandmaster sags against Malik, unsteady and heavy in his armor.  Malik sways under the weight and the feel of Altair’s hot breath at his neck.  His hand is wet all over, but he drags it over Altair’s thigh, smearing it carelessly and wipes the rest of it off on the inside of Altair’s sirwal.  By then, Altair is standing on his own, watching Malik tug up the drawstrings and return the ends of his tunic and sash to the proper position. 

“Malik,” he begins, shifting uncomfortably and casting his eyes around for a rag to clean himself, but Malik pushes him to the door, smirking.

“You weren’t fast enough; we’re late,” he reminds, nudging the Grandmaster with more body that strictly necessary. “Think of it as something to look forward to while you talk and flatter our dull and easily awed guests,” he adds.

Altair’s expression is priceless.  He starts to argue and protest, but Malik yanks the door open and shoves the Grandmaster out of the room, glittering and perfect for all the world to see.


End file.
